


174 - Van's Not Okay

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reader-Insert, Sick/Sad Van
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 06:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17401793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: A fic about: Van’s changing behaviour being v. worrying for everyone.





	174 - Van's Not Okay

The vibration of your phone didn't wake you. As it fell off the mattress and hit the bed frame on the way down, it was the noise that startled you from your dreams and propelled into the land of the living. Clawing around for it in the early morning light, you picked up without looking at the screen. 

"Hello?" you croaked out. There was hesitation on the other end. Whoever it was only just realised calling this early could wake you. For a second you thought of Van. 

"Hi, Y/N. It's Bernie. Woke you, didn't I?" 

So, not Van. Close to though. You sat up, turned the lamp on and looked at the clock. It was almost seven in the morning. Really, not that early. 

"It's fine. Um. Hi. Is everything okay? Has something happened?" 

Why else would your exboyfriend's father be calling? 

"No, nothing's happened. Mary and me... We were just wondering if you'd spoken to Van in a while?" 

Your turn to hesitate. The last time you’d talked to Van was a few nights before he left for tour. That was at the end of December. You couldn't play the role of soldier's wife anymore. Having him yours but not really, it was too much. You'd broken up when neither of you had wanted to. You were in love and in all the months since that love had not faded even a tiny bit. In place of the pain of having your boyfriend gone was a pain of knowing you'd not get him back. Too stubborn to do anything about it, you reasoned out he was better off single, or maybe dating a musician like him. If he could fall in love with someone that had the same nomadic lifestyle he could be happy. It's all you wanted for Van. 

"No... Not since... since we broke up. Why? What's wrong?" 

"Ah, nothing. Nothing. Sorry to call you, Y/N," Bernie said. 

"No. You can't just call and ask that then not tell me. What's up?" 

He paused and you could hear Mary's voice in the room. "We don't know. He's just not been in touch as much as he normally would. Heard they cancelled a few shows. And... It's probably nothing. When we can get a hold of him... and when we watch him on the internet, he's just... different somehow,"

"Have you talked to Larry?" 

"Yeah. You know him. He'll always just do what Van says. Wouldn't say much," Bernie told you. 

You were about to ask if maybe Van was just sick. He'd get moody when he was sick. Van felt the weight of expectation, even if he didn't admit it. Bernie's voice though, it told you it was more than illness that he was concerned about. They had to be really worried to call you. Bernie and Mary were never the type of parents to interfere with Van's life. They let him make his own choices, good or bad, and let him suffer the consequences. For them to be calling his ex, that said something. 

"Okay. Maybe I'll call him later? I'll get back to you if I find anything out," 

"Yeah, alright. Thank you," Bernie replied with a sigh. It was then you realised that was why he'd called. Maybe you could get Van to admit something nobody else could. You'd always had a knack for that. 

"All good. I'll talk to you later," 

"Okay. Bye, Y/N,"

"Bye." 

You got back under the covers and Googled where Catfish were, what timezone. If you waited a few hours, it would be midafternoon and someone could take your call. 

...

"Why'd you call me instead of him?" Larry asked. The phone line crackled and you could hear sound check in the background. It was a familiar sound that made your stomach ache for a life you gave up. 

"Figured he wouldn't tell me if anything was wrong,"

"Why would I tell ya any different then," 

"Because... if something is wrong, maybe you want help with that?" you tried. Larry paused and you wondered how close Van was to him. Was he watching from the stage? 

"I can't believe they called you," Larry said. 

"Shows how worried they are. Now I am too. You've gotta give me something, Larry."

He sighed. The silence wasn't going to deter you. 

"He's... I don't know. He's fine. Not sick or anything. He's just... different. Don't talk to people as much. Stays in the smoke room on the bus or in his hotel room. He's drinking more now too. Kinda worried he'll start doing it before shows. Keeps breaking guitars. It's... I don't know," Larry said in one breath out. He was dying to confide in someone and you'd always been that someone. 

"Have you talked to him about it?" 

"Tried. Told me to fuck off. Said he was fine," 

"But he's not,"

"No. I think... This tour's different. They've like, made it, you know? So maybe he doesn't have a goal to focus on anymore. Doesn't have to act a certain way to get people onside," Larry said, trying to reason out the change in his best friend's behaviour. 

"Maybe he's just being a moody rockstar," 

"Nah. You know him, Y/N. Van's never been like that. Still gets excited when there's free tea and food. I don't know. Maybe he misses you. Do you miss him?" 

You wanted to scream yes, the surest yes you'd ever said. Instead, you laughed an awkward sound out that probably said more than the yes could. 

"What do I tell Bernie?" you replied, ignoring Larry's question. In turn, he ignored yours. 

"Do you got any time off soon? Maybe you should come out and see him?" 

"Fuck, Larry. Doesn't that seem like the last thing he needs?" 

"I don't know what he needs, that's the thing. Maybe you can figure it out." 

As soon as the suggestion was made, your head had already agreed. You could argue it all you want and you could go through all the possible outcomes, but it wouldn't matter. You knew that you'd get off the phone and look up flights and be on your way over the ocean to just pop around to your exboyfriend's hotel to see if he needed you to make him a cup of tea or something. 

...

Larry met you out the front of the hotel. Catfish had two days off and it was only 8 am on day one. 

"Do you think we should have told him?" you asked Larry in the elevator up. 

"Even if I did, he probably wouldn't remember. He was so fuckin' wasted last night. Good luck waking him now."

Larry had the second keycard to the room and let you in. He gave you a small smile as you walked through the doorway, then left you alone. Van was asleep; you could tell by the light snoring he only made when he was drunk. The room smelled like stale cigarettes and open liquor bottles. He'd obviously disregarded the no smoking policy. You knelt on the floor next to the bed where he was sprawled out in his jeans but topless. You gently moved hair out of his face and tucked it behind his ear. 

"What have you done to yourself?" you whispered. Even asleep and even looking through the half-lit room, you could see the deep lines under his eyes, the darkness there. His lips were dry and he had two pimples that had been scratched at. He'd probably not washed his hair in a week or more. 

Standing, you looked around the room. The minibar was raided and emptied, and there was evidence of a messy open-doored shower. The tiles were still wet, which meant he'd only returned home shortly before you arrived. He'd brushed his teeth though. There was spat up toothpaste and blood in the sink. Van's clothes were thrown all across the room, and as you picked them up and folded them on the table you found one of your t-shirts in the mix. He couldn't have accidentally packed that. You folded it and put it with his other things. His journal laid open and was screaming to be read. You closed the pages and put it in his bag. As his girlfriend, he would have let you read it. You didn't know what you were anymore. 

Kettle on and teabags in mugs, you moved back over to Van and ran your hand down his arm. He twitched but didn't wake. Cupping his cheek in your hand, you leant down and kissed his forehead. He moaned and moved. Not automatically assuming you were near, he slowly sat up with his eyes not really open. He rubbed them, then muttered a string of swear words under his breath. The kettle whistled and Van woke up. His eyes flicked from the kettle to you, standing only a metre away from him. He looked worse now that he was awake. His skin was pale, even for him. There was shadowy stubble that needed to be shaved. 

"Hi," you said. 

His chest started to rise and fall quickly. Whatever emotion he was about to show, it was gonna be intense. You couldn't tell if it was good or bad, happiness or anger. 

"Y/N," he said, his voice dry and hurt. 

"Van... Are you okay?" No point in wasting time. He shook his head. "No?" He shook his head again. Then, quickly and before you could even process it, he pounced off the bed and pinned you against the wall. His mouth was on yours before you could speak and his hands were under your shirt before you could think. He tasted bad but under the booze and smoke and acidic toothpaste, he tasted like Van. Like home. But, he was hurt and maybe still drunk. He was vulnerable, and regardless of your own want, you pushed him off you with a violent force that sent him back onto the bed. He sat on the edge for only a second, rubbing his face with his hands, before standing. 

"Fuck!" he yelled, voice breaking. "What the fuck are you doing here, Y/N," 

"I came to help," 

"Help what? Me?" There was the anger. You nodded. "I'm fine. Don't need you," 

"Didn't say you did, but... everyone is worried and you wo-"

He was pacing but stopped when you'd said that. 

"Everyone? Who's everyone?" 

"Um. Your parents, and Larry. Probably all the guys. I don't know. People love you, Van, and they just-" you tried. 

"They what? Can't mind their own fuckin' business? I'm fine," he spat. He'd always been so grateful for people looking out for him. You didn't recognise him like this. 

"You're fine?! Look at yourself. You're not. What's wrong?" 

"Fuck you, Y/N. Just go home," he said as he walked into the bathroom and slammed the door closed. 

Your anger surfaced then and it overtook the sad. You stormed out and walked to Larry's hotel room. You knocked hard on the door and when he opened it he could see it in your face. 

"Went that well, huh?" 

... 

A couple hours of catching up with Larry and you were back at the conversation of the day: what to do about Van. You were about to rock paper scissors for who had to go check on him when there was a knock on the door. Larry answered and let Van in. He threw himself into the hotel chair and looked at you both. 

"This was you?" Van asked Larry, pointing at you. 

"She called me, but yeah. Said she should come. Just worried about ya,"

"I told you I was fine," Van replied. It felt unnatural to see them in a disagreement about something other than football or food. Even though it wasn't your fault, you felt responsible. 

"You don't look fine. You look tired," you said.

"And sad," Larry added. 

Van's leg was bouncing and he was chewing his nails. He shrugged, and his eyes flicked from you and Larry. He was on the defence. You moved to kneel at Van's feet, pushing his legs apart to sit between them. You rested your elbows on his thighs and took his hands in yours. He didn't fight you. Despite the sickness so evident on his face, his blue eyes still sparkled. His eyelashes were clumped together with the tears he was trying to hold back. 

"I know you, Van. If I can see something's up from shitty YouTube videos of your shows and the little information your dad told me, like... it means something's wrong. You're so, so loved, and it's hurting people to see you like this," 

"Like what?" Van replied in a childish mumble. 

"Mate. You're fuckin' imploding. You're drinking and sleeping all the time. Hardly say a word to anyone. It's like you don't care about the band much anymore," Larry said. He was annoyed and frustrated and sad too. The person he was describing wasn't Van. It wasn't even Van on his worst days growing up. 

"I care about the band," Van said immediately. He looked down at you, like you were the one he needed to convince. "I'm not... I'm not doing anythin' on purpose," 

"We know. You wouldn't. This band is everything. I think we both know I know that more than anyone, but-" you went to say, but Van interrupted. 

"That's just it! Fuck. It's... You... The band is everything, but I want more than that. I want..." His sentence trailed off when he was too sad to say it. You rested your chin on his thigh and closed your eyes. You knew what he wanted. 

"You want a family," you whispered. Van didn't need to nod or say yes. It was just a given fact about him. It was embedded in his DNA. 

You let go of his hands and shuffled closer to him to wrap your arms around his waist. You could hear Larry quietly leave the hotel room upon the revelation that Van's spiral was more about you than anything else. Van started to pat your hair, combing it out gently with his fingers. Eventually, his leg stopped bouncing and he breathed out. 

"I'm not okay," he said. 

"I know. What do you need?" 

"You. I know we said it couldn't work but I love you so fuckin' much, Y/N." 

You moved your head away from him, then stood up. His hands followed you and rested on your hips. Standing between his legs, you looked down at him. Pretending to not still be in love with him would be an exercise in torture. Yeah, having him be away all the time was hard but the alternative was worse. How did you ever think you could live without each other? 

"I love you too. I'm sorry I did this to you,"

"No, Y/N," Van replied quickly. He stood and held your face in his hands. He shook his head. "Don't say that. You ain't responsible for me being a fuckin' twat. Just been real dramatic," 

"You've freaked everyone out," 

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'll call home... Go talk to the guys. Guess I should say sorry," he said with a shrug. 

"Maybe. It's not your fault you're sad. But we gotta work it all out," 

"No, I'll be good now. I'll be okay if you're here. You'll stay for a bit?" 

"Yeah. For a bit. Then I gotta go home, back to being a soldier's wife, I guess," you replied, nodding and pulling Van into a hug. He wrapped his arms around you. 

"I'm sorry. It won't always be like this," 

"I know. It's okay. We're okay." 

As you took Van back to his room, made him have a proper shower and wash his hair and shave, you sat on his bed and thought. The fact that Van existed, so kind and clever and beautiful, that was lucky for the world. For him to be so madly in love with you, that was lucky for you. You couldn't have all the luck and have him be home all the time, you figured. There had to be some compromise. The band, the touring, exploring the world and meeting people, they were the things that made him Van. You'd both have to find a way to coexist with that reality. 

After talking to the guys, calling home, and hugging it out with Larry, you let Van take your hand and lead you through the city streets in the dusk light. You watched him eat a proper meal and felt a little of the worry dissolve. The brightness of the sunset shone through the restaurant, making all the different shades of Van's brown hair glow. No more alcohol-induced pass outs. No more broken guitar strings. No more recklessness. Back to soft, happy, gentle Van.


End file.
